


The Belly is an Ungrateful Wretch

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bass ripped jeans fetish, Gay Sex, M/M, Miles on his knees fetish, Minor Angst, Mostly Fluff, Pre-Blackout, can't decide which boy I like better as a bottom so I won't, cooking fetish, day in the life, unless you're boring in love with Miloe I wouldn't bother with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1255621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's January of 2012, the boys share an apartment on leave, Bass cooks, they have sex. It's really fascinating fare, folks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Belly is an Ungrateful Wretch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maywitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maywitch/gifts).



> “The belly is an ungrateful wretch, it never remembers past favors, it always wants more tomorrow.”  
> ― Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich 
> 
> Essentially, maywitch and I are boring in love with the boys, so we agreed I'd dump some of our dullest desires into one throwaway story. Unless you REALLY dig Miloe, this story is a total snooze/sex fest.
> 
> Sorry for any typos!

**_January 2012_ **

“Fuck, it’s cold out there,” Miles announces casually, his voice raspy from winter dryness. He shakes the snow from his stocking cap and unlaces his boots, kicking them off and leaving them where they lay. “But I’ve acquired provisions.” Pausing from removing his socks to wave a paper bag stuffed with a bottle of whiskey, he briefly drinks in the sight of his beau, barefoot in ripped jeans and a white t-shirt, hard at work at the tiny stove. He barely stifles a sigh. He and Bass have taken a hobbit-sized, furnished apartment in Chicago for their two-month leave, and it’s the first thing that’s felt like home since they left Jasper. 

Miles feels damn old since he turned thirty, and he hasn’t said this yet to Bass, but for once, he’s thinking about what they could be together if they just quit the Marines once and for all. He’s not stupid enough to think they’d find domestic bliss together – they’re too fucked up, and they’re, well, _whatever_ they are…two men, and that’s not easy. As far as Miles knows, nobody’s aware that he and Bass are more than friends, though he sees that look Rachel gives them. She’s smarter than is good for all of them.

Bass senses Miles behind him and half waves but doesn’t turn. He’s focused on frying (and not burning) the lamb, almonds, and raisins. There’s something about cooking that’s satisfying. Control maybe? Bass used to love the danger and exhilaration of being _out_ of control – it’s one of the things that attracted him to brave, Alpha Miles – but since losing his family, he’s needed to know _something_ isn’t arbitrary.

Though Bass isn’t showing it, is waiting for Miles come to him, it feels damn good to hear Miles padding barefoot across the tiles of their little shared kitchen, pouring out whiskey for them after a long day of fuck-knows-what. (Miles didn’t even bother to get out of bed until a few hours ago. By the time Miles had showered, he’d decided it was time to go get whiskey. Bass should worry – _is_ worried. But that’s also just Miles.)

Privately, Bass likes to tell himself they’re nesting here together, though he’d never say so to Miles. For the first time in their lives, they have sex whenever they want; they wake up in each other’s arms (and then Miles goes back to sleep). At last, Bass is learning what it can be to actually have a relationship with the man he's loved for so long.

The fragrance of Basmati rice diffuses through the kitchen, as Miles’ long, lean arms suddenly wrap around Bass’ waist from behind, one hand offering him a whiskey neat. Once Bass receives it, the other extensive, calloused hand slides under his white-shirt to trace the muscles of his abdomen.

Miles buries his lips under Bass’ earlobe, inhales the lemony leather there, and mumbles, “Whatcha makin’, babe?” Miles lets himself melt into Bass just a touch and tells himself it’s okay to be a little weak. Bass isn’t an idiot; he has certainly deduced that Miles is depressed, even if Miles has far less to be melancholy over than Bass does and hates himself for being so fragile. As usual, he’s not even sure what he’s sad about. It’s just his natural state.

Meanwhile, that _babe_ gets Bass somewhere at the core of him, within his bottomless need to be accepted. Perhaps it’s just the idea that Miles’ lips have loosened enough to routinely call him a pet name in the confines of their little apartment.

“Quzi,” Bass finally answers. He feels Miles’ scratchy smile against his neck, and suddenly all his blood rushes to his crotch. 

“Mm. Just like the good times in Iraq,” Miles quips.

But to Bass, on the topic of cooking (oddly), Miles’ sarcasm is a knife to the heart. “I thought you loved Quzi?”

Miles can feel the change – the tension spread over Bass’ back and shoulders. “It’s probably the _only_ thing I miss about that shit hole,” Miles reassures, kissing the smooth skin of Bass’ neck in bland apology.

“Okay, bud, back up,” Bass warns, trying not to be cross. “I’ve got to get everything in the pot, and then I can take a break.”

Miles compliantly takes one step back, but then places his hands on Bass’ shoulders. “Tight,” Miles croaks. _Because of me_. Miles doesn't know how not to be an ass.

“Uhh,” Bass sighs, giving in to the talented fingers. “Yeah, I lifted heavy at the gym.” See, unlike Miles, Bass actually did a few things today – like weight lift and go grocery shopping. One of Miles’ hands busies itself with rubbing Bass’ knots while the other no doubt dispenses whiskey to its master. Bass tosses in the rice, covers the lot, and disentangles himself to wash up at the sink.

“Time for a break?” Miles can (pathetically) feel his own eagerness dance in his eyes when Bass turns around and leans back against the counter. It’s been less than five hours since Miles last had Bass, so how can things literally be this pressing? Miles shifts his crotch slightly and defends himself, “Can’t resist those fucking ripped jeans. Makes me want to rip them some more.” He reaches for the hem of Bass’ shirt and draws it up, catching briefly on Bass’ nose. Then lacing his fingers through both of Bass’ hands, he extends Bass’ left forearm to press his lips to the emblem of their friendship (recently amended to include “Monroe” in loving memory of Bass’ perished family). Miles watches gooseflesh explode across Bass’ chest, hardening the nipples. 

“You’re a sap, Miles,” Bass chuckles in pleasure, though he thinks he detects hurt in Miles’ eyes at what he certainly did not intend as a jab. Abruptly, Miles lets the arm drop. They’ve been having a great deal of trouble not setting each other off with their words lately. In fact, it’s been better not to talk. Bass is perpetually wrecked from loss, Miles from humiliation (due to his recent internment in Afghanistan), and they’re both wary of what they’re building here. Bass shakes his head a little, and pulls Miles forward into his lips. “I like it,” he breathes into Miles’ mouth before drinking in those whiskey lips. 

Miles fumbles with Bass’ belt and fly and pushes down Bass’ pants, who steps out of them. Then, Miles makes quick work of his own pants, while Bass tugs off Miles’ black t-shirt, revealing those chiseled, inky biceps. Now that they’re clad only in thin boxers, Miles grinds into Bass’ hips – the delicious friction of cotton-clad boner on boner.

Bass leans back, as he feels Miles sink to his knees, pulling Bass’ shorts down as he goes and then pausing to look up with magnificently forlorn, chocolately eyes. God, he’s pretty. Shaking his head, Bass threads his fingers into Miles’ chestnut hair and rakes the scalp with his nails, just as Miles’ tongue travels up Bass’ length and his chapped lips nick the tip with a tenderness that, frankly, would be hard to square with Miles Matheson if you didn’t know how passionately he loves.

Miles closes his eyes against the rapturous yanks on his scalp, while the graceful fingers of Bass’ other hand glide across his cheek. Miles patiently takes Bass all the way into his throat, just for a moment, so he doesn’t gag, then backs off to wring him out, searching the lake-blue eyes above.

“Fuuuuck, Miles. Mmm,” Bass babbles. Bass lets the warm wetness take him to the very brink, before Miles senses it and stands, lifting Bass up like he weighs far less than he does and settling him on the kitchen table. They both sweep bills and silverware out of the way, so Bass can lay back and open his legs. Miles discards his shorts and grabs haphazardly for the olive oil on the counter, coating himself. 

Bass reaches for Miles’ dick with both hands and pulls it into himself, while Miles cups the back of his neck with one hand and stares deeply into his eyes. Miles is so fucking intense when he claims you that Bass wonders how others have stood it – Emma for instance. Bass always makes himself receive Miles' gaze as long as he can, before the pressure on his prostate forces his eyes to slam shut. Then at that moment, trite as it sounds, Bass _feels_ Miles’ love, because Miles can’t come so deep inside him and not drop his guard.

Miles cradles Bass’ neck and watches him fight the impulse to blink and give in. _Yeah, babe._ And _fuck._ Miles always worries he comes too fast with Bass, he just wants him so badly. Their whole lives have been depriving themselves of each other’s skin. He can’t help it, he’s finishing already, right now, his muscles tangled up and then heaving in rough spasms, his heart doing this weird breaking thing it does when he comes inside Bass. Miles plunks his forehead so violently into Bass’ shoulder that he _ows_ , and Bass laughs.

Miles rolls his lips lazily over to Bass’, fumbling down Bass’ belly for erection.

Bass catches Miles' fingers on top of his own dick.

“Can I…?” Is what Bass inquires, reaching around Miles’ bum to hole and pushing against it pad-first. It shrinks away. Miles tops more often than not, and ever since Afghanistan, Bass has only penetrated Miles once. They haven’t discussed it, and Bass has been trying to walk the line of helping Miles without spooking him. 

Miles winces. He nods, though. He likes when Bass takes him, always has. He’s embarrassed, in fact, by how much he likes it (and simultaneously how much he frets about his body). Because they do it less often this way, it’s always a little more work for both of them.

“Get on your knees,” Bass whispers and hands Miles a dishtowel for his bum knee, crushed in their first tour. Bass douses himself with olive oil and positions himself behind Miles’ gorgeous ass. When he pushes in, he feels Miles clench down and gasp. Bass strokes Miles’ hip gently, before leaning forward to settle his torso into Miles’ back.

Miles relaxes a bit then, as the curves of muscle mend his body’s brokenness. Miles can tell Bass is penetrating him as carefully as possible, but he’s so virginally tight – it sears. He likes it anyway; God, he loves it. He moans. His dick is limp and finished, but it doesn’t matter. This is about something else, and hell if he can figure out what. He just wants it.

Bass’ swift climax catches him by surprise. Miles is so rigid all around him, and Bass is trying so hard not to tear him, that just a tiny bit of movement pushes Bass over, each pulse of come burying him further inside Miles. Bass is gasping – can scarcely breathe - and griping the stretched skin over Miles’ ribs tight enough to leave marks when he releases.

Miles sinks down with a moan, as Bass collapses on top of him. “You okay?” Bass mumbles into Miles’ shoulder.

Miles always feels weirdly emotional after Bass has come inside him, so he just nods to avoid that waver in his voice.

“Christ, Miles. We’ve got to do this more often so you loosen up. I’m worried I’m going to rip you open.”

“I like it,” Miles has mumbled, before he realizes what he’s said. Then, he blushes.

Bass chuckles and cranes over Miles’ shoulder to kiss him on the cheek. “Good. Dinner?”

They help each other up and put back on their boxers, mainly because they’ve both got seed dribbling down the backs of their thighs.

“Here. First bite,” Bass says spooning some of the aromatic rice dish into Miles’ mouth.

“Perfect.” 

Bass smiles. It’s a little sad how good it feels to get a compliment from Miles, but he’ll mildly bask in the glow of his triumph. He tastes it himself. _Yeah, it is good._


End file.
